


Roses & Lace

by Thelonelycoast



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dominant, Fiction, Happy Ending, Harry is a girl, Humor, Kinky, M/M, Orgasm, POV Third Person, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Content, Slash, Smut, Submissive, cross-dressing, larry stylinson - Freeform, lourry, sassy!louis, sub/dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thelonelycoast/pseuds/Thelonelycoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis Tomlinson’s not into women - he’s into Harry Styles dressed up in women’s underwear, which is totally and completely different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses & Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh...just a little end of week smut.
> 
> *Goes to hide in a corner.*

**Roses & Lace**

Louis wouldn’t say Harry’s _obsessed_ with the idea, so much as _enamored_ by it.  Harry’s gender identity has always been a fluid thing - he’s as liable to don a pink beanie in public as he is a leather jacket, to get a giant sailing ship tattooed on his shoulder as he is to get a butterfly on his stomach.  In Louis’ opinion, that’s always been one of Harry’s most attractive qualities - that he straddles that line between soft and hard, masculine and feminine, eschewing traditional gender roles in favor of just doing what he _wants_ , what feels _nice_ to him.  And sometimes - what feels nice to Harry - is wearing a dress.

It’s not as if Harry doesn’t notice the weird stares he gets or the fans who call him out for it - who’ve nicknamed him “princess” and “cupcake” (which Louis supposes is better than “man-whore” at any rate).  In fact, Harry seems to court the speculation about himself, making a joke of his masculinity in subtle, but very public ways.  Like when for his nineteenth birthday, Harry insisted on having a pink and purple cake and wore a princess tiara half the evening (slipping down his curls as he got progressively drunker).  Of course, Harry’s gender rebellion was undermined by the media when Nick jokingly hired a female stripper (of all things) to give Harry a lap-dance.  (Louis still hasn’t forgiven Nick for _that_ one.)  But Harry made his point, for those who cared to see it.

Harry’s penchant for gender-bending had started off innocently enough - shoving balloons down the front of his shirt during an interview, wearing a pink tutu to a signing, doing ballet pirouettes across the stage in the middle of a show.  It’s _Harry_ \- who let’s be honest - does weird stuff all the time - so Louis doesn’t see it as part of a larger pattern, so much as isolated incidences of Harry being his normal, kooky self.  He doesn’t realize until later that Harry sort of gets off on the idea.  In fact, Louis sort of does too.

* * *

The thing is that - when the old pictures resurface in the tabloids - Louis can’t stop thinking about that gold thong Harry used to wear around the X-Factor house - _well_ , when he wore anything at all, that is.  Harry’s always been a bit of an exhibitionist, which is frankly a large part of his charm, but sometimes, and it’s weird for Louis to admit this - but _sometimes_ he prefers Harry clothed.  Well, not _clothed_ so much as dressed in something skimpy - something that covers him just barely, something that hints at what’s underneath without laying it all out there.  Sometimes, _that’s_ what really gets Louis going - Harry both concealing and flaunting his body - teasing Louis with the knowledge that he can have it all, but first - _first_ he had to undress him.  (Preferably with his teeth.)

The gold thong had been nice - had accentuated Harry’s long, toned thighs and displayed his sixteen year old package enticingly - but it wasn’t really Louis’ _thing_.  If anything, the thong had been a bit too _masculine_ for Louis’ taste - because even though it was small and gold and flashy, it was clearly made to house a _man’s_ assets.   _No_ , it’s the lacy, strappy women’s stuff that gets Louis going.  Not lycra or polyester blend or _Godforbid_ \- _cotton_.  No - for Louis, it’s always been silk and lace and satin.  It’s the thought of that fine fabric stretched to its limits around Harry’s unwieldy, masculine body that gets Louis’ breath quickening, his mouth flooding with saliva.  It’s the thought of tearing it off that makes him hard.

* * *

The idea has been forming in Louis’ mind for some time now, taking shape, making itself known in the smallest of ways.  At first, for several horrifying days, Louis thinks he’s developing a bonafide attraction to women.  He’d pass storefronts with mannequins draped in silk and satin and feel a wrenching twist of heat in his gut, feel sweat breaking out along his hairline, feel his knees turn to rubber.  A bra would get tossed on stage and he’d pretend to be disgusted, but secretly he couldn’t resist rubbing the fabric between his fingers before tossing it back into the crowd.   _Soft_.  

With startling, humiliating clarity, Louis recalls being a little boy, hiding in the circular racks of clothing as his mum shopped, rubbing the smooth fabric all over his face and cheeks, kissing it even, stroking it like a beloved pet.  It’s the first time - as young as five or six - he cognizantly recalls getting an erection in _response_ to something, not just as unexplainable annoyance that cropped up occasionally, but as a result of outside stimuli. (Not that he knew what to do with it then.)

It’s confusing at first because Louis isn’t really into women.  Nor is he particularly prone to cross-dressing.  So he has no idea why he keeps having these paralyzing moments of inexplicable arousal in the presence of women’s undergarments (of all things).  It’s not until he’s browsing Tumblr late one night and sees the fan edits of Harry wearing a flower crown that he gets it.  The roses are bright and luminous against Harry’s soft, dark curls and Louis gets a quick flash of Harry on his knees, gazing up at him as Louis rubs his leaking dick all over Harry’s flushed cheeks, all over that red, red mouth.  Now - whenever Louis closes his eyes, there are roses blooming behind his eyelids.

* * *

Louis finds out about the boutique from Eleanor, of all people.  She stops there on one of their public outings to get some naughty underwear that Louis will never see on her - and give the paps outside and everyone who reads them the general impression that Louis and Eleanor like to engage in heterosexual activity with one another.  ( _Gag_.)  Louis was usually bored and inattentive during these trips - reaching for Eleanor’s hand whenever a camera was in sight, but dropping it like a wet, dead fish a moment later when they’re out of sight.  He spends most of their time together suppressing yawns and doing his best not to roll his eyes (too much) and thinking about what he’s going to eat later on.  Or else texting Harry outrageous things, until he makes himself laugh.

Except _that_ day - Louis’ interest is peaked.  His hands are twitching at his sides, desperate to rub and stroke and fondle the different textures of fabric, to test the elasticity of the straps, to disappear into the dressing room alone.  He’s always been tactile person, tactile and _visual_ and when he thinks of Harry wearing those things - the lace of a delicate bra straining over the broad expanse of his chest, his sizeable assets squashed and misshapen in a pair of tiny silk panties, Louis begins to sweat in earnest.  

In fact, it gets so bad he has to leave the shop before Eleanor’s rung up her stuff.  Eleanor teases him about it after in the Smoothie shop - about being embarrassed around women’s underwear -  when really, Louis only left because his cock was starting to leak in his trousers and he doesn’t want Eleanor to get the wrong idea.  Louis Tomlinson’s not into women - he’s into Harry Styles dressed up in women’s underwear, which is totally and completely different.

* * *

Louis doesn’t mention all this to Harry.  The thing is - they need to be careful.  Everyone is watching them - all the time - waiting for them to slip, and it isn’t just Louis and Harry’s careers that depend on the closeting, but the other boys’ too.  (At least, according to their management.)  And Louis knows firsthand how vicious the press can be.  He’d learned that the hard way.

One night, Louis had gone round to the corner shop when Harry was craving something sweet after sex and had been papped in his pajamas buying a box of brownie mix and a carton of eggs and some milk.  The next morning, there was a highly unflattering picture of him on the cover of the Sun under the headline - _One-Ton Direction: Louis Tomlinson’s Late Night Binges_ \-  the ensuing article suggesting he’d put on quite a bit of weight when really he was just wearing an oversized jumper of Harry’s and the camera angle was a bit wonky.  

Still, Louis hadn’t eaten for two whole days after, until Harry intervened, insisting that he loved Louis’ poochy little tummy ( _Harry’s_ words) and proved it to him by rubbing himself off on Louis’ stomach, spraying his load all over Louis’ belly with a shameless moan.  Afterwards, Harry had fixed Louis an ice-cream sundae and spoon-fed it to him in bed, not letting him up for a shower until Louis had finished every last bite.  It was the best damn ice-cream sundae Louis had ever eaten.  (And the blow-job in the shower afterwards wasn’t too shabby either.)

Of course that night - that wasn’t even the _really_ bad stuff - the slanderous, down-right outrageous accusations that the media made about Harry that make Louis’ whole body shake and shudder with rage.  And part of Louis’ contract is that he’s not even allowed to say anything, to defend his boyfriend from even the most heinous, damaging lies.  Harry - ever the optimist - says he doesn’t mind so much because Louis always fucks him so hard after those articles come out that he indirectly benefits from them (or so he _claims_ \- but Louis thinks Harry just says that to make him feel better).

Louis knows he has to be careful.  He knows he’s got to be discriminating about who he imparts this information to.  It has to be a girl for starters, someone no one would question purchasing this sort of thing.  Eleanor’s out - because Louis doesn’t have a death wish - and she and Danielle are besties now, so Danielle’s out too.  Louis would go to Lou Atkins, but Lou’s as much Harry’s friend as she is his (maybe even more Harry’s than _his_ ) and he’d like to keep at least some of their sex life from being fodder as she fixes his hair.  So it’s Perrie Louis calls - of all people.  Louis tries to be casual about the whole thing, even though they’ve hardly ever spoken on the phone, let alone hung out just the two of them.

They meet for lunch when they’re both in London between gigs.  Louis arrives first and he’s so goddamn nervous he can’t stop jiggling his leg under the table and checking his phone every two seconds.  He even responds to same fan tweets in an attempt to distract himself.  Louis overshot his actual travel time, so he’s twenty-minutes early, which means he’s already downed three cups of tea by the time Perrie arrives in a flurry of pink hair and apologies, her Pomeranian, Hachi’s, bear-like little face peeking out from the parted zipper of her bag.

He stands up to pull her seat out for her and they exchange a quick kiss on the cheek.  Louis keeps nervously glancing out the glass-plated window for signs of paparazzi because the last thing he needs is this getting back to Zayn or the paps blowing it out of proportion, turning their lunch into some sordid cheating scandal.  After those shirtless sleeping pictures of Zayn emerged a few months ago, Louis knows he already has enough rumors to contend with.

“I’ve never been to this place,” Perrie says, glances around as she sorts herself out.

“It’s okay,” Louis shrugs.  He’s not even sure he can stomach food really.  He’s beginning to think this is a really bad idea - that he should enjoy a nice lunch, make his excuses and leave.

But then Perrie is smiling at him - so guilelessly and easy and Louis sort of forgot how much he likes her - how easy she is to talk to and how much she makes him laugh with her brash, outgoing sense of humor.  They settle into an easy repartee - Perrie relating some funny stories from Little Mix’s tour that have Louis laughing so hard he gets sparkling water up his nose.  It’s nice to get to sit back and be the one enjoying himself for once - instead of having to be the leader, to guide the others and provide witty banter in interviews.  Louis is quite comfortable in his role as “the funny one” - he’s definitely not complaining - they’ve all got their roles to play and it’s not as bad as being “the Bradford Badboy” or “Harry the Womanizer”, but it gets tiring sometimes. And it’s nice to just forget that stuff.

He hasn’t forgotten why he’s here though and as the conversation drags to a lull in the middle of their entrees, Perrie glances over at him with a concerned expression.  “Is everything okay with you Lou?  I mean - we don’t exactly - we don’t exactly do lunch - you and I.  Not that I mind-” she quickly assures him.  “Just figured you’d go to one of the boys or Eleanor first-”

Louis sighs.  “No, you’re absolutely right.  And I feel a bit shit about that because you’re actually really cool.  It’s just - it’s sort of private - and I just thought - well you seem like someone I could trust.  Are you?” he raises an eyebrow.  And shit - if this doesn’t work out, if Louis was wrong about Perrie, he is so, so screwed.

“Yeah, of course Lou.”

“There’s some stuff that...that I wanted to get,” Louis bites his lip.  “If you could like...be my personal shopper or whatever.”

Perrie  looks slightly puzzled - because it’s not as if Louis has ever been one to shy away from shopping.  Most of his “relationship” with Eleanor has revolved around being papped at Topshop and Starbucks.  “It’s kind of personal.”

It’s not that Louis is embarrassed to be seen buying it - he grew up in a house with five women, so he’s been sent to the shop for a box of tampons before.  And really, there’s something a bit thrilling about the thought of - of getting that stuff - knowing who and what it’s for.  But it’s too risky.  Louis passes Perrie the list as they settle down to after lunch cappuccinos.  

“You don’t have to do it - only if you want -” Louis stammers, as Perrie scans the list.  Her face doesn’t betray anything - no sign of disgust or confusion and she tucks it away into her purse, sneaking Hachi a dog treat as she does.

“It shouldn’t be a problem.  But you couldn’t you just - order this stuff on the Internet like a normal person?” she teases.

“Our security team checks all our mail to make sure it’s safe.  And I’d rather not explain... _that_.  So you’ll do it?”

Perrie shrugs, all sparkling eyes and pink flyaway hair.  “Sure.  Why not?”

“Great,” Louis breathes a sigh of relief, handing her the wad of bills he’d withdrawn for the occasion.  No credit cards.  He’d learned that the hard way.  “Get yourself something too, if you want.”

Perrie grinned.  “I might just.  How should I get it to you?”

“Zayn.  You can give it to Zayn.  Just - try to be discreet.”

“Not sure that word’s in my vocabulary.” Perrie smirked, standing and gathering her things.  “Well, Louis, it’s been interesting as always,” she chuckled, leaning down to kiss him goodbye as a camera flash went off outside the window.

* * *

They’ve got a week off and Zayn’s been MIA for most of it - not answering Louis’ increasingly frantic texts or returning any of the whinging, pathetic voice-messages he leaves.  Louis is going crazy in anticipation so he ends up calling Anthony in a moment of desperation.  Anthony confirms Zayn is alive and crashing there and that he’ll meet up with Louis for food under the condition that Louis pays.

“Is there something going on between you and Perrie?” is the first thing out of Zayn’s mouth when they meet at Nandos on Tuesday.  

“Did she say something?” Louis asks anxiously.  He loves Zayn, but he knows his friend is not above blackmail and Louis isn’t eager to supply him that kind of ammunition.  

“No, but there’s this.”  Zayn slaps a newspaper onto the table between them - Louis and Perrie emblazoned on the cover under the headline: _Perrie’s Parry - Her Bold Move to Get Zayn Back_.  ( _Yikes_.)

“I’ll save you the trouble of reading it - the short version is - Perrie is sleeping with you to get back at me for that girl.  Who I didn’t even sleep with in the first place.  But I know you and I know you’d sooner sleep with Voldemort than an actual girl with an actual vagina, so what gives?”  

Louis snorts at the “actual vagina” bit; Zayn experiences rare moments of unintended humor when he’s mad.  “Perrie - she’s helping me out with something.”

“Would that something be this?” Zayn pulls a box wrapped in brown paper out of his backpack and sets it down on top of the newspaper.  Louis could kiss Perrie - he really could - for wrapping it so nondescriptly and for doing it so quickly and for doing it at all really.  But like Zayn said - he’d rather exchange bodily fluids with Voldemort than an actual girl (with an actual vagina).

Louis reaches for it with greedy hands, but Zayn pulls it back at the last second.  “Just - be honest - it’s not - it’s not drugs, is it?”

Louis stares at Zayn incredulously.  Zayn doesn’t believe Louis would shag a bird, but he believes he’ll use his mate’s girlfriend to extort drugs?  “No. No,” Louis laughs.  “Nothing illegal, unless you want to count how good Harry will look in -”

Zayn claps his hands over his ears, relinquishing the box.  “I don’t want to know.  And for the record I’d rather not be a pawn in your twisted little sex games.”

“We need you Zayn.”  Louis taps his finger on the paper.   “Or would you rather I be papped with Perrie all over town?”

“I’d rather you didn’t do - whatever it is you’re doing at all,” Zayn huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking affronted.  Louis can hardly blame him - for not wanting to know more about Louis and Harry’s sex life than he already does.  They’d all found out the hard way just how thin the walls of several hotel rooms were and just how difficult it was to have privacy on the tour bus.  (Though when Louis is sad - he only has to think of Liam’s horrified face when he’d caught Louis fucking Harry up against the sink - to make himself smile again.   _“I clean my hands there Louis!”_ )

“I’ll buy you chicken,” Louis smiles sweetly.  “All the chicken you can eat.”

Zayn doesn’t look pleased, but he no longer looks like he wants to bite Louis’ head off and regurgitate it onto his newly shampooed carpet, which is progress.  “I can eat _a lot_ of chicken,” Zayn smiles, softening at last.

* * *

Harry is watching TV in their bedroom when Louis gets in.  He grins brightly when he sees Louis.  “How was lunch with Zayn?”

Louis tosses the box onto the bed, where it bounces off Harry’s knee.  “Put that on,” he says gruffly.

Harry knows better than to argue.  (He _knows_ better, but he still sometimes does it - but only when he wants it to hurt, for Louis to give it to him roughly.)  But today Harry’s desire to be punished is far outweighed by his desire to find out what’s in the box.  Harry’s familiar with that particular commanding note to Louis’ voice - knows it eventually leads to him struggling to walk for a day or two - and he leaps to his feet without hesitation, disappearing into the bathroom.  Louis smiles to the empty room, feeling only slightly like an insane person.

In Harry’s absence, Louis changes into a pair of loose sweats and one of his Harry’s vintage, washed-thin band t-shirts that still smells a bit like him.  He knows it will take Harry some time to figure everything out - women’s clothing isn’t always intuitive - and he makes himself a cup of tea in the interim, trying to disregard his rapidly stiffening length, to ignore the near-painful anticipation that comes with knowing that Harry is in the bathroom _right now_ , putting on the things Louis got for him.

Louis is at full mast by the time Harry is done, without moving so much as a finger to touch himself.  He tries to calm down, to sip his tea and relax, but then the bathroom door is open and Harry is filling the empty space, blocking out the light with his long, lean body, and Louis’ jaw is on the floor.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks softly, bashfully lowering his face as a blush erupts across his cheeks and the top of his chest.  He’s biting his lip and staring down at his feet - feet which are encased in silk thigh-high stockings, secured in place by garter clips.  The tops of his thighs look delicious - like vanilla ice-cream peeking out the top of a cone - and Louis has never wanted to lick or bite them more.

The box had been full of different garments that had struck Louis’ fancy, but Harry somehow managed to pick Louis’ favorite - the lilac lace panties and the matching bra with the complicated triangular straps at the top criss-crossing his collarbones.  Harry’s sparrow tattoos dip under the lace edging and the bottom edge of the bra covers the wing-tips of the butterfly on his tensing stomach and Louis is so goddamn hard he can’t think.

“Come here,” Louis commands, pointing at the patch of rug at his feet.  Harry obediently shuffles toward him, head bowed, hands behind his back in the submissive position he so often favors with Louis.  He’s obscenely tall so his efforts to scrunch himself up smaller than Louis are absurd, but Louis appreciates the effort anyway.  He appreciates everything about Harry really.

Harry’s already half-hard, his dick pushed cruelly sideways, his sac bisected by the seam of the panties so that his balls are forced apart.  He looks gorgeous - _more_ than gorgeous - _ravishing_.  Louis runs a thumb along the divot of Harry’s hipbone, fingering the lace there, before pulling one of the garter straps back so it snaps hard against Harry’s thigh.  Harry trembles slightly, his eyes fluttering shut, letting out a low, pleased hiss.  

“Get on your knees for me,” Louis says and Harry lowers himself to the carpet without question, kneeling on the floor between Louis’ spread thighs.  Louis reaches his foot out, experimentally rubbing his toes under Harry’s balls and over the length of Harry’s shaft.  Harry bites his lip, but doesn’t make a sound.

“Do you like the gifts I bought you?”  Louis asks, stroking Harry’s cheek tenderly while his foot rubs roughly along Harry’s dick.

Harry swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing.  “Yeah.”

“Show me.  Show me how much you like them.”

“I’m not sure - I don’t know - I don’t know what to do,” Harry stammers.  “Tell me.”  Louis looks down at his erection tenting the front of his sweats.

“Show me how happy I made you.  Show me with your mouth.”  Harry reaches up eagerly for Louis’ waistband, but Louis slaps his hands away.  “No hands.  Put them behind your back.”

Harry does, teeth tugging at the waistband of Louis’ sweats, peeling them away agonizingly slow.  Louis lifts his ass off the bed, his erection springing free.  Harry’s eyes widen and he wets his lips with his tongue before ducking in and licking a stripe up the side of Louis’ erection.

“Yes, you’re doing so good beautiful,” Louis sighs, leaning back on his elbows so Harry can take him all in.  Harry’s cheeks hollow out, his green eyes glassy and unfocused as his red mouth works up and down the length of Louis’ cock.  It shouldn’t be so hot - Louis’ boyfriend on his knees in a pair of panties - but it is - and Louis is afraid it will be over too quick.

He pulls Harry’s head back by his hair, Harry’s mouth coming off with a sucking pop.  Harry actually whines for it, making Louis’ gut clench.  “Come up on the bed, darling,” Louis says, scooting over so Harry can lie next to him.

Louis gets Harry onto his back, runs his hands all over Harry’s taut body, while Harry impatiently wriggles beneath him.  When his hands slid down to bracket Harry’s thighs, Louis’ face quirks in surprise.

“You shaved?”

“Is that okay?” Harry asks, biting his lip.  

“Mmm..yeah,” Louis leans down, sucking and biting his way along Harry’s smooth thighs to show his appreciation.  Harry trembles, fingernails digging into the blankets at his sides.  

Louis hitches one of Harry’s thighs up, moving Harry’s panties aside so he rub his thumb over Harry’s quivering asshole.  Harry lifts his head off the mattress to watch, the white crown of roses on his head already crushed and drooping.

“Gonna make your pussy so wet,” Louis growls, before teasingly flicking the tip of his tongue over Harry’s opening.  Harry gasps in surprise - either because of the unexpected sensation or because Louis has never referred to his ass as a pussy before.  Louis wishes he could have seen Harry’s accompanying expression, but his face is buried between Harry’s cheeks, his tongue fucking in and out of him, the lace panties rough against his unshaven chin.

It feels so fucking dirty to be rimming Harry likes this, in a pair of women’s underwear, but also so fucking right.  Harry’s hips are lifting off the bed off their own accord, trying to force more of Louis’ tongue into him and his thigh is deliciously smooth and soft where Louis grips it.

“Lou, Lou - I need,” Harry pants, reaching down to squeeze Louis’ shoulder.

“What do you need baby girl?” Louis tongue is numb and his words come out jumbled, but Harry seems to understand them all right.

“I need you to fuck me,” Harry says, knees shaking where Louis still holds them.  Harry’s cock has shifted, the red plumb of his head cresting the top of his panties - his bellybutton is slick with precum.

“Mmm...your clit is so hard for me,” Louis marvels, running his fingertips over Harry’s heated shaft.  Harry’s always leaked a lot, but his panties are downright soaked.  He’s so slick that for a second, Louis thinks he’s already cum.

“Did you cum already?”

Harry shakes his head vehemently, the flower crown shifting to and fro on his dark curls.  “No.  Just leaking.  A lot.”

Louis bends down to lick a trail of prefuck off Harry’s twitching abs.  “So wet for me.”  His hand slides up, dipping below Harry’s bra to tweak his nipples.  “Your little tits are hard too.”

Harry’s head falls back in a moan, revealing the smooth, pale column of his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.  Louis reaches for the lube that he’s strategically placed beside their bed, but Harry’s hand stays him.

“No lube.  Please.  Just want you in me,” Harry pants, pulling at the hair on Louis’ thighs.  There’s sweat glistening on Harry’s chest and his cheeks are flaming red and he looks so beautiful Louis thinks he might cry.  Louis leans in to kiss him as he shoves his way inside, so that he can feel Harry’s resulting grunt in his mouth, vibrating against his teeth.

Louis might top, but Harry ultimately dictates the pace and the pressure, fingernails digging into Louis’ back when he wants it rougher, lazy, tonguing kisses when he wants it soft and sloppy, his head lolling back on his neck.  It’s not long before he’s nearing climax, his long arms and legs wrapped around Louis like an octopus, clinging to him like Louis is a ship he’s trying to sink.

“Gonna cum for me baby?”  Louis twists Harry’s nipples through the lace as he ruts against him, purposefully ignoring his leaking dick because he wants to see if Harry can cum just like this - just from having Louis inside him, from their barest friction of their pressed bellies.

Harry comes first with a loud cry, hands fisting Louis’ hair as wetness seeps between them, making their already sweat-slick skin slip even more.  It isn’t long before Louis is pumping his own load into Harry, his lips pressed into the valley of Harry’s neck, tasting the salt of his skin.

They’re so lost in their orgasms they don’t even hear the door open.  “Hey, Harry, have you got that - Oh for Christ sakes!” Liam groans, throwing his arms up in supplication before he slams the door neatly behind him.

Louis is still inside Harry, so he feels the vibrations of Harry’s helpless giggles all through him as he collapses against him, biting Harry’s shoulder in an attempt to suppress the laughter that’s rocking his whole body.

When they’ve calmed down enough to breath normally, Louis just holds Harry, who’s always so limp and pliable and fucked-out after sex in the way Louis loves best.  He thinks Harry’s falling asleep on his chest when he raises his head to stare at Louis, with giant, luminous green eyes, the flower crown askew on his dark hair.

“Do you ever wish I was a girl?” he asked, seriously.

“Oh God, no.  I really, really like your dick,” Louis says, making a playful grab for Harry’s softening cock.

Harry blushes, burying his face into Louis’ chest, but he seems satisfied with that answer.  After a few more minutes of cuddling, Louis slaps Harry’s ass.  “Come on.  Let’s get cleaned up.”

Harry protests weakly into Louis’ shoulder.  “Can’t walk.”

And Louis’ll be damned if he doesn’t carry Harry into the bath a few minutes later, stripping off his soiled underthings before lowering him by the armpits into the hot water.  Harry lets his head loll back to rest on the rim of the tub and Louis squeezes into the Louis-sized space between Harry’s parted legs because that was the place he liked best.

“You think - would you want to do that again?” Louis asks as he lays his head back against Harry’s broad chest, marred with lines from where the underwire bit into it.

“Yeah. But maybe we could lock the door next time?” Harry suggests sleepily into Louis hair.

“Deal.”


End file.
